


this city

by camicazi



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: (Doctor voice) you won't even feel it, Actor Do Kyungsoo | D.O, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Idol Park Chanyeol, M/M, Strangers to Friends to Best Friends to Lovers, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wild Assumptions of Seoul's Layout, bc they know it'll never happen, only a little angst, relationship security level: threatening to breakup every 5 seconds, “Bro” but Romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:34:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29512584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camicazi/pseuds/camicazi
Summary: They say there's a little bit of everyone's souls in the places they've been: something more permanent than footprints, memories breathing with every recollection.The houses may change, but the streets stay the same; this city knows Chanyeol and Kyungsoo—guards the places where pieces of them have been made and loved and left behind.
Relationships: Do Kyungsoo | D.O/Park Chanyeol
Comments: 23
Kudos: 57
Collections: The Little Prince Fest_Round Three





	this city

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for The Little Prince Fest's Valentine's Special Round! Huge thank you to mods Meokmul and Huchu for organizing this fest and especially this round! They were so patient with me, and did such a great job with the flow of the events!!
> 
> enjoy <3

“Where are you?”

Chanyeol pretends to look around, gaze skimming through white tiles and circular pillars. “Guess,” he says. “It’s easy.”

A mother and daughter wait by the platform. College students make their way down the stairs, keychains and notes rattling off the silence. The fluorescent lights cast shadows over everything they strike. The train station is asleep. 

“Can’t,” Kyungsoo mumbles, head buried in his folded arms. “Too tired.”

The outdoor dining area reserved for kitchen personnel is a mirror to where Chanyeol is: empty and bare, the signage for the storage room peeking behind stacks of metal dish plates.

“Rough day?”

“Ran out of gas for the stoves. Had to play busboy and carried everything everywhere.”

Chanyeol's hands itch to knead into Kyungsoo’s shoulders, press kisses to his neck. “I’ll hang up then,” he says, because this is all he can do, “you need rest.”

“You end this call and I’ll end this relationship.” Kyungsoo peeks half his face out, eyes engaged in a half-hearted glare. “ _You’re_ my rest. Tell me where you are.”

Chanyeol smiles from under his mask. “Apgujeong.”

“Rodeo? The station? Why?”

Chanyeol considers lying. Maybe something about Yoora making him go get his niece her train card because she was starting school soon; or maybe going to the studio without a car and staying so late there was no one left to hitch a ride with.

“I missed you,” he answers instead. “I was cleaning out my old training bag, and I missed you.”

Kyungsoo snorts. “Lame.”

“I’m in love with you,” Chanyeol throws back, and it's easy, this script they do, “what did you expect?”

“Say it again,” Kyungsoo laughs, soft, cheeks lifting and eyes turning into crescents. He places his elbow against the table, props his head up with his palm.

Chanyeol doesn’t know how to say no when Kyungsoo gets like this. “I’m in love with you.”

“Again.”

“I’m in love with you.”

“Again.”

“I’m in love with you.”

“One more time.”

“I love you,” Chanyeol coos, “I love you I love you I love you.”

“Ah, my Yeol.” Even with the smile on his face, Kyungsoo’s voice is strangled. “It hurts. Why does it hurt?”

Chanyeol wants to say that it might be the universe’s way of balancing the both of them out—Kyungsoo’s version of Chanyeol having a crying session in his closet when their old train card fell to the floor.

But something crashes into him.

Orange juice spills down his jacket, cold trickling to his pants, down his _thighs_ —and it’s all he can do to not get any on the screen—

“Fuck,” Chanyeol curses. It’s a kid—he sets his phone down and catches her wrist before she stumbles onto the platform, “hey, careful!”

“Yeol? What’s happening?”

A little girl is looking up at him, wide eyes glassy with tears, ready to erupt, but juice has made its way to the front of his pants, and he doesn’t care. “That’s, _motherfucker,_ that’s cold, _fucking hell—“_

“Chanyeol. Babe. Hello?”

“Hyuna!” A mother: the same one who was waiting for a train. “Hyuna, oh my goodness, I’m so sorry, I told you to not run around, look at what you did—”

Instinct takes over; Chanyeol pulls the cap low on his face and fixes his mask close to his eyes. He’s not sure if he wants to stand up. While popularity is something he’s made peace (and war) with, being recognized is the last thing he needs right now.

“I’m so sorry,” the mother says, bringing out wet wipes and rubbing along his arms before Chanyeol can stop her, “my daughter is very clumsy.”

Chanyeol shoves her off, a little too harshly, bringing out a handkerchief of his own. “It’s fine,” he says, raising the pitch of his voice. “Don’t touch me. You can apologize by leaving. Please go away.”

“I could—“

“No.” Chanyeol shoves his phone in his pocket. “Please just leave me alone. It’s fine. I think your daughter needs help. You should take care of it.”

Chanyeol doesn’t wait for her reply: he stands up, hurrying away to the stairs. He rushes by the ticketing booths, looking sadly past the vending machines—he was supposed to get some spam omusubi, maybe a Coke.

The memories had seized him, as sudden as the train card falling to the floor, one by one, bittersweet—times that were no more, but could be remembered all the same, in one way or another.

He would have to settle for ordering some onigiri tomorrow instead. 

The midnight-tinted roads are as empty as the train station. Only a few street-sweepers finishing up for the night, a stray dog here, a lost soul there.

Chanyeol brings out his phone. He’s hoping against hope that Kyungsoo’s still on the line—but the little box in their chatroom says that he’d disconnected only three minutes ago.

_platoon leader caught me_

_i miss you. stay safe, okay? buy something to eat._

_i saw the latest nng, we should drink at your bar one day_

_i love you. i love you. i love you._

Chanyeol’s steps are heavy the whole way to his car. He huffs against the autumn air, leaves already littering the pavement, letting the cold distract him from the disappointment in his gut.

His strides quicken as he enters the parking lot; there are no sasaengs, but you can never be too sure. Baekhyun and his apartment keys were a big enough lesson to all of them.

He’s about to open his car when the woman comes running up to him, chest heaving as she squeaks out his name.

Almost empty.

“Goddamit.” Chanyeol throws himself onto the seat, slam-locking the doors. The taps to his window are insistent. He takes a deep breath in, shoving down the desire to simply drive away. 

_I’m sorry, no pictures allowed._

_Do you have a pen? I can give you a sign instead._

Chanyeol is ready to snap the words out, reputation be damned, but the woman is holding something up: brown and small against the lamplight.

It’s his wallet.

“Thank you,” Chanyeol stutters, expecting a piece of paper to come with it. Nothing. He hates the tension in his limbs, the alertness to any sudden movements—but this tiny bit of paranoia has become the norm to lives like his.

The woman doesn't ask for anything in exchange. 

“I’m sorry again,” she bows, “it was an accident. Please have a good night.”

Chanyeol still doesn’t relax until she disappears down the subway stairs, coat bouncing around her legs. Only then does he open his wallet. Everything is still there: his bills, his ID, even the polaroid of Kyungsoo’s back.

Chanyeol bumps his forehead on the steering wheel, lets out a humorless laugh.

The universe can be funny on occasion.

Orange juice has dried into a sticky film across his arms. His fingers are too numb to send a reply to his boyfriend. He reminds himself not to act on impulse, because the risks you take of being mobbed by sasaengs just to be sentimental can be worth it until they're not.

Most times, the universe is just a bitch.

Five kilometers, twenty-three meters.

9:32 PM: only a few people are littered between the old platforms and greying walls of Apgujeong station. Chanyeol’s sneakers whine against the stairs when he bumps into someone, barely an apology slipping between them.

“Leave the gate open. I had dinner already.” 

“I’ll heat up the soup,” Yoora tries, voice crackling along the line. “Bring out some ice cream. Onigiri and coke isn’t dinner, Channie.”

Five kilometers, twenty-three meters: the distance between the Apgjugeong and Nambu stations, always five kilometers and sixty-two meters too far when he’s at either end.

“I’ll have chocolate for dessert. Then it’ll be the best dinner ever,” Chanyeol says drily. He reaches the machines dispensing food: there’s exactly one piece of spam omusubi left. “We’re celebrating this weekend anyway. Don’t bother.” 

“We’re all worried about what you eat, Channie. You know, Mom’s been going into my room, saying how you’re too thin. I think she wants me to start coming to pick you up after I work. Maybe if you talked to her—”

“Aish.” Chanyeol rummages around his bag for his wallet. “You just want her to annoy me instead.”

Yoora doesn’t refute him. “Look, just tell Mom if you’re making any friends. One-on-one. What’s the thing? _Heart to heart._ ”

Chanyeol pats down his jacket. “I’ll deal with it tomorrow. I’m tired, noona.”

“Poor baby,” Yoora mocks, and maybe it’s the fact that Chanyeol doesn’t have the energy to mock her back that makes her soften, “on his special day too. Ride safe. I’ve transferred you some money already, okay? Sorry I couldn’t do it earlier. Happy Birth—“

“Apologize with more money.”

“Brat,” Yoora scoffs, though Chanyeol hears it turn into a laugh before the line goes dead.

Chanyeol realizes his wallet is missing the same time a muffled yelp resounds through the tiles. It’s coupled with something heavy hitting the ground—the man he’d bumped into is on the floor, clutching at his face. Chanyeol can only watch as the man stumbles up and runs away, steps heavy as he races through the station.

A hand taps at his wrist.

“Don’t.” There’s a boy, handing him a small pouch, Sehun’s scribbles and Baekhyun’s drawings next to his fingers. “It’s not worth it. He’s got a knife on him.”

He’s the textbook definition of delicate: small nose, pretty forehead. His hands float with carefulness, even as Chanyeol watches him shove fallen papers into his bag. Scripts upon scripts, stapled and wrinkly.

An SM ID hangs from his neck.

Actor trainee.

Year 1: Do Kyungsoo.

“Wasn’t planning to,” Chanyeol takes it, “what did you do?”

“Tripped him,” the boy shrugs, narrow shoulders lifting under a too-big jacket. “Maybe broke his waist. Not sure. I do judo. Didn’t even break a sweat.”

Chanyeol offers to treat him to a vending machine meal. They share a rice ball and some chips, sitting in awkward dialogue until the slight rumble of an approaching train mixes in with the intercom.

_Please observe proper distance between train doors._

“See you around.” Do Kyungsoo is already walking away.

He could be no more than a train station, Chanyeol thinks, as he watches his back get smaller and smaller. A lingering presence. A simple stop. No reason to attach more strings than necessary.

Maybe it’s his exhaustion, blurring the lines between sensibility and nonsense.

Maybe it’s the boy’s smile when Chanyeol teased him for boasting, easily the most sarcastic one Chanyeol’s ever seen—or maybe it’s the late night air, gathering in his lungs, traveling down to the soles of his feet.

”Hey!”

There was always something clinging to the passengers of late night trips—small and subtle; hidden in thumbs circling over palms in delicate handholds, steam floating off cups of cheap coffee—Chanyeol has come to trust them, these invisible nudges from the universe;

And right now, something is telling him to not let Do Kyungsoo slip away. 

“What’s your stop?” Chanyeol asks, laying a hand on his shoulder, making him turn in surprise.

Scripts worn to the point of softness. Delicate hands, hiding behind knowing smiles. Plush lips, wide eyes.

“Nambu,” the boy replies, cautious edge to his voice. “Why?”

“Me too.” Chanyeol hopes his grin is friendly. “We’re in the same year. Let’s go together from now on.”

_— f ~~ive kilometers, twenty-three meters~~ thirty two minutes: the distance between apgujeong and nambu stations—one: chanyeol slipping on the steps, kyungsoo’s laughter ringing through the near-empty subway—two: kyungsoo trying to steal his tteokbeokki but somehow tripping over an old lady in the process—three: the little games they play, stories woven through the cityscape, if you could fly, where would you go? I’d have to know where you were first—_

_—five six seven eight: chanyeol’s doubts, small pieces of vulnerability, eyes glued to metal poles, trying to find a place in the middle of people that don’t care—nine ten eleven twelve: kyungsoo’s assurances, eyelids drooping but voice steady, listening, always there, with him, chanyeol doesn’t have to go looking for long—_

_— ~~thirty minutes~~ ~~one hour~~ ~~two hours~~ ~~fifteen more minutes~~ as long as it takes: chanyeol, falling asleep in the lobby, phone vibrating insistently in his pocket; kyungsoo, a cold sandwich pillowed between his head and the table—‘you should’ve gone ahead’ comes the scolding—‘let’s go home then’ always comes the sleepy answer—_

“Where are you?”

“Guess.” The shop always feels warm to Chanyeol, handwritten notes sprawled over random products, corny _good morning_ s and _you did well_ s pasted on spatulas and journals. He’d commissioned so many birthday gifts here.

There’s the sound of Kyungsoo dropping his phone to the floor—“just tell me”—followed by the adorable noises he makes in slight distress.

“Loser,” Chanyeol can’t help himself, talking to a black screen, “I thought the military would make you a little less clumsy.”

“Fuck off,” Kyungsoo finally reaches the phone, positioning it against his pillow, “you know how I am when I wake up. Show me already.”

Chanyeol switches to the back camera, focusing on the neon letters glowing above the counter. _The Wish Tree_.

“Whose birthday,” Kyungsoo furrows his brows, “—oh. Junmyeon-hyung.”

“I’m on decorations duty.” Chanyeol shows the shopping cart filled with colorful streamers and fairy lights. “I’m meeting Baek in a bit too. He got the cake. Sehunnie’s in charge of the place.”

“What’s that?” Kyungsoo squints, covering a yawn. “Beside the plushies.”

“Aren’t they cute?” Chanyeol snatches up the penguin and giraffe ceramics he’d found in one corner and places them near the camera. “They were the last ones. I think they’re from Seonho’s shop.”

The Wish Tree was endearing like that—always filled with little trinkets that had a subtle glow on their own.

“Control your spending. Do you need them?”

Chanyeol only hums in response. Kyungsoo liked telling him he was too mystical for his own good, but Chanyeol’s seen him smile plenty at the ‘useless’ things he buys, scattered around their apartment.

What was it they said? _Small but certain happiness._

He walks to the kitchen appliance aisle, bringing the camera closer to the pastel collection near the pots. “Look Soo, it’s the coasters you like. I should get them.”

“Control your spending,” Kyungsoo repeats, stretching like a cat onto the sheets. It’s rare for him to have a random day off, and Chanyeol had insisted he spend it resting instead of anything else. “But if it helps you cope, then why not?”

“I’m not coping,” Chanyeol turns it back to the front camera, “who says I’m coping?”

“Me,” Kyungsoo smiles, all sleepy, and _gods,_ Chanyeol’s missed that so much, “you’re not slick, visiting a shop on our route.”

Chanyeol flicks at the end of his mullet: a lingering souvenir from comeback season. He wants to grow it long enough to properly push back with gel. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Ah, then maybe you don’t remember our places. Should we just break up?”

“Maybe,” Chanyeol pretends to think about it, knowing his turn, “over this place, though?”

“Very important. It’s where you begged me like a crazy person to hug you.”

“Mmmh _,_ ” Chanyeol says, “no, no, it’s where you begged me to stay with you in the trainee program.” 

“ _I want a free pass_ ,” Kyungsoo mocks, voice ridiculously high, _“unlimited hugs.”_

 _“You promised_ , _Chanyeol,”_ he fires back, going even higher, _“you said we’d make it together!”_

_“Look at me be desperate for physical contact from my crush and then freak out when I finally get it—“_

“Okay,” Chanyeol busts into a laugh, honey spilling down his soul. “Okay—stop, you win, I hate you so much.”

“You were so ugly back then,” Kyungsoo’s laughing too, shoulders lifting in increments of his pillow. “Wait I can’t—“

“Hey,” Chanyeol whines, stretching out the syllables, “I wasn’t ugly.”

“No,” his boyfriend manages, “but you looked like a string bean in flannel.”

“You weren’t the prettiest person either.”

“Still had a crush on me though.”

“You’re lucky I did.”

A gap of silence: the signal goes bad, or Chanyeol thinks it does, until he looks down to see Kyungsoo looking at him with a secret smile on his face.

“What?”

“You’re right,” Kyungsoo mutters. “I’m the luckiest person alive for you to want me.”

“You forgot to say no homo,” Chanyeol reminds. If he says the same thing they’ll just end up in circles, and Chanyeol can’t afford to get emotional in public. His manager’s only bought him a rough 30 minutes of privacy. “That’s gay, bro.”

“Oh shit, I forgot to say no homo while I was sucking your dick too. You think that’ll get us in trouble, or…?”

Chanyeol rolls his eyes, smiles right after. “Don’t worry, I’ll say it extra when I suck yours. It’ll cancel out.”

“But,” Kyungsoo says in a theatrically low voice, “between you and me, I’m a little bit gay for you. Is that cool, bro?”

That somehow makes him love Kyungsoo more. Soulmate. He’s in a relationship with his fucking soulmate.

“Very cool.”

Five hundred meters.

Chanyeol knows the route by heart. Filled with clothing stores and gift shops, the collection of alleys Kyungsoo had shown him after a month of going home together is only one left turn from the main highway.

He’d pulled Chanyeol along through the dry beginnings of snow, wind clutching at everything it could, promising cold that could seep through bones and nip at noses.

Five hundred meters: the distance between Nambu station and the bus terminal.

Chanyeol remembers when he thought they’d drift apart naturally, as simple as their bus routes going two different ways, as easy as reaching a waiting shed.

_—five meters: the stop sign versus the stairs going into the bus—we have vocal assessments next week—we have mock auditions tomorrow—when is your debut?—they say soon—I’ll see you in the station, then? when I can?—don’t forget about me when you’re famous—feels like it should be me saying that—_

There would be no hard feelings, only things they could do nothing to change, like where they lived, where the world took them.

Chanyeol looks at him now, a whole year later, humming an english song he’d heard while waiting for Chanyeol outside the vocal training practice rooms.

He’s focused on his phone, so Chanyeol is the one navigating them around the trees and street poles, although he does have Kyungsoo get especially near to crashing into one just to see him flinch. (The glare is worth it.)

Sometimes he taps his elbow when they pass by the street food alleys, and sometimes Kyungsoo readjusts his cling on him, locking their arms together without looking up.

Kyungsoo knows all of Chanyeol’s mentors, able to understand his stories even when his head is dropping against Chanyeol’s shoulder on the train seats. Kyungsoo might steal all of Chanyeol’s friends one day—there’s a song with Baekhyun and Kyungsoo covering something on Chanyeol’s hard drive, and Sehun asks him to eat out whenever he visits the practice room.

Chanyeol doesn’t want to jinx anything. But he thinks, he hopes, if they lasted this long, then they’ll last so much longer.

“Hey.” Kyungsoo jolts him with a pinch. “You look like you’re thinking.”

“Is that bad?”

“No,” Kyungsoo shrugs, “but it always gives me something to worry about. You don’t do it all too much.”

Chanyeol looks up at the sky. It’s an early day for both of them. A good day. The route is drenched in the deep golds of sunset—fading light getting into their eyes.

“Thank you. For worrying.”

Kyungsoo stops, sneakers scratching at the pavement, holding Chanyeol by the wrist. He presses a hand to his forehead, and then to his neck—

“Asshole,” Chanyeol flicks it away with a smile, “I’m not sick.”

Kyungsoo’s eyes narrow in suspicion, and it has Chanyeol’s chest thumping: the way, even now, Kyungsoo’s fighting off a smile of his own, purely because Chanyeol’s doing it too.

Maybe he’s expecting another teasing session. Maybe he’s getting ready for another bit they do, or maybe he’s just like that—capable of proving that someone’s happiness could easily be your own if you cared for them enough.

He’s used to this feeling now, one Minho has described as a very deep crush, and one Baekhyun and Junmyeon have teased as _oh my god he’s got it bad—_ three whole months ago.

He’d been quietly getting struck by it ever since, stronger and stronger with every mundane thing Kyungsoo did.

The poetry books on Yoora’s shelves loved to talk about how people were leaves in the wind or sand patterns near the shore. River currents that ebbed and flowed, flowers that showed up during spring.

How they were waves, dissolving into each other; replaceable; one metaphorical blink and they’d be gone, but Chanyeol thinks that maybe he needs to buy his sister sunnier things to read, because Chanyeol’s been living with the feeling of vowing to the clouds, Kyungsoo’s laughter and steady silence and piercing eyes, _I’ll never leave your side_ —

“What did you do.”

“Nothing.” Chanyeol’s laugh is too loud, too telling. “I promise!”

“Park.”

“You worry too much.”

“Because I’m always right,” Kyungsoo says as Chanyeol throws an arm around his shoulders, “what did you do?”

Chanyeol sighs, gathering what little confidence he has. He’d grown into his abilities. Sharpened his charms. He’d even made it to a music video. He could plead and tease and run his way out of trouble.

But when it came to Do Kyungsoo, Chanyeol would always be weak—stomach and knees. He blushed easier. He’d fold with barely a look. Chanyeol’s resigned enough to think that no amount of training could make it any different.

So he needs it, this little moment.

“You remember when we first met?”

_—i’ll see you around SM then?—_

_—you forgot to give me your number—_

“I thought you were flirting with me.” Chanyeol’s smile grows at the recollection. “You said I made you feel safe.”

“I said I didn’t want to get robbed again,” Kyungsoo corrects, “and having a giant like you around was better than being alone at ten at night.”

“Same thing,” Chanyeol shrugs. “Point is—“

“’Same thing’?”

 _“My point is,”_ Chanyeol pulls him closer, “I’m glad I met you.”

Kyungsoo’s warmth is welcome against the telltale November winds: whipping his hair around to tickle at Chanyeol’s cheeks.

“You’re always there for me. It’s been exactly a year. I don’t think I would have survived without you.”

He realizes that it’s been too long a second of silence, and he’s about to ask when Kyungsoo shoves away from his hold.

“You’re dropping out of the program,” Kyungsoo accuses, pointing a finger at him, “aren’t you? You’re leaving me alone. You motherfucker. You said we’d make it together, Chanyeol—“

“Kyungsoo, you overgrown baby,” Chanyeol’s laugh bubbles from his throat, “I’m just trying to invite you to my birthday party.”

“Huh.”

Chanyeol flicks at his forehead. As much as Kyungsoo’s memorized Chanyeol, he’d done the same, all his expressions and tics and gestures. The whine that comes out is expected.

“I talked to your mom. Yoora picked up your clothes. You don’t have to come, I know you’re busy, but if you don’t want to stay overnight, we can drive you home.”

Kyungsoo doesn’t say anything.

“They want to meet you.” Chanyeol rubs a hand along his neck. “And I may have told my mom about your cooking, so she wants to give you a knife. Or a pot. Not sure. She thinks you’re her son. Sorry about that. In advance.”

Nothing.

“It would be nice for you to come,” Chanyeol decides. “So you finally know what the house looks like.”

Kyungsoo only blinks up at him.

“Hello?” Chanyeol knocks on Kyungsoo’s head, brows furrowing together. “Are you broken?”

“I don’t have a gift,” Kyungsoo says, like it’s the biggest problem in the world. “You’re so dumb—I don’t have a gift for you, why would you spring this on me—I met you on your _birthday_? Are you _serious_?”

“Didn’t want to trouble you any more than usual,” Chanyeol sighs. They’ve reached the old stop sign, a constant through all the seasons. “I know what gift you can give me.”

Kyungsoo shakes his head. “I’m not singing for you,” he says, the exact same time Chanyeol says, “I want an unlimited free-pass for hugs.”

“What?”

“Only for tonight.” Chanyeol slings his arm back around Kyungsoo ~~where it belongs~~. “I want Park Chanyeol-worthy hugs. None of the lifeless clinging you do with strangers. I want the best hugs Do Kyungsoo can offer.”

“Why?”

“Because I haven’t gotten one from you yet.”

“I don’t give them because I don’t _do_ hugs.”

“It’s okay, I’ll teach you. C’mere.”

“Now?”

After Chanyeol clicks his tongue, looking at him like a mother would a child, Kyungsoo shuffles forward, a challenge in the set of his shoulders, the biting of his lips. Chanyeol brings his arms across his middle, trying not to crack up for the sake of the both of them.

“See?” he can’t resist teasing, “all friendship and good things. I can feel it in how stiff you are.”

That has Kyungsoo laughing for real, melting against Chanyeol’s chest, burying his face into his shoulder. His nose is bumping against Chanyeol’s shirt. Warmth blooms through Chanyeol’s ribs.

It strikes him with the suddenness of lightning.

_Oh._

He’d assumed Kyungsoo hugging him was harmless.

_Oh no._

He knows now; knows in the marrow of his bones, just how deep in trouble he is, just how much of the world he’d give to have Kyungsoo always quietly happy like this.

Now, Chanyeol is the one that shoves him away, hoping the cool afternoon air can help with the tingling on the tips of his fingers and the flipping of his stomach.

“Bus is here,” he coughs into his fist.

There are butterflies ripping through him, amplified by the smile Kyungsoo has on. It’s the ones that he holds back, the ones that act like if he doesn’t he’ll blind everyone that sees the full force of it.

All through the night, Kyungsoo tackles him for hugs, sometimes downright violent, sometimes soft, in the kitchen, on the couch, in front of his family members, on the rug, always with that heart smile—

By the end of it, Chanyeol stares at the ceiling of his bedroom.

They’re still there, ghosts of Kyungsoo’s fingers settled over the small of his back, replays of how his breath seared itself in the skin of his neck—it’s clear, so subtly dangerous and exhilarating.

 _Happy Birthday,_ he’d said, as he hugged Chanyeol in front of their gate. He couldn’t stay for the night. _Did you like my gift?_

_I didn’t ask for a single one, Kyungsoo. Not after the bus stop._

Kyungsoo had only laughed. _The pass extends indefinitely now. Ask me for a hug when you need it, okay?_

He said it so simply, like it was a throwaway thing.

Like Chanyeol’s hopeless heart wouldn’t cling on the privilege to the point of abuse and delusion.

_—ten by eight centimeters: one: polaroids of them in front of an amusement park; I want that one kyungsoo, give it; too bad loser, this one’s mine—two: polaroids of them in front of exo’s first fansign—three: backstage in an exo concert—four: both of them on a blockbuster movie set—_

_—five six seven eight: nineteen by thirteen centimeters: a photo album, spanning three whole years, tucked in the bottom of a drawer—_

_—nine ten eleven twelve: another photo album, only one year—we’ve been so busy—you think they’ll riot if I take you with me to that awards show?—Japan is our thing, they won’t even blink—polaroids of them in karaoke rooms, polaroid of them under midnight streets, polaroids of them sharing ice cream—_

“Where are you?”

“Babe, say hi.” Chanyeol switches the camera to Seungwan and Sooyoung. “Guess where I am.”

Kyungsoo waves, fatigues stark against the white kitchens. Beside him are two other kitchen personnel: Donghwan and Jaehyuk, eating lunch on metal trays.

“Remember when you called me babe?” Sooyoung whines, pouting at the other girl. She places pieces of meat on Chanyeol’s plate, then her fiancé’s. “Love is dead.”

The restaurant is closed for the entirety of Chanyeol’s stay, cutting it off from the noon sun, but the neon lighting around the wall edges is cozy to him. Their samgyupsal setup is spread out on the table: side dishes lined neatly against their plates, meat sizzling on the grill.

“I thought you liked ‘wife’ better,” Seungwan raises a brow, offering up a wrap for her to eat.

“You don’t call me wife all that much either," Sooyoung pouts but accepts it, smiling around the food, face eventually crinkling in silent happiness. 

“I’m trying not to make Chanyeol puke,” Seungwan gestures to his phone. “It’s called common courtesy.”

The sight of it has a bolt of longing going through Chanyeol; a heaviness in him that screams of how there’s something missing by his side.

“Yeol,” Kyungsoo’s voice snaps him out of it, “fix your face, you look sad.”

Chanyeol disconnects the earphones and puts Kyungsoo on speaker. “They’re making me miss you,” he complains, “tell them not to be in love.”

“You deserve to suffer after all the times you made us play crush counselor,” Sooyoung sticks her tongue out, “and besides. Kyungsoo loves me too much to be mean.”

“Joy,” Kyungsoo greets, using the name she has customers call her, “I miss your ice cream. Have you changed your store hours?”

“Kyungsoo, my everything, my favorite child,” Sooyoung coos, “you come here anytime you want, okay? You can bring your annoying boyfriend, but make sure he behaves.”

“Kyungsoo, my boyfriend, my love,” Chanyeol grumbles, “would you let me get bullied like this?”

“He loves me more than you.”

“Yeah? Well I’ve seen him _naked_.”

“Why does that matter? So have his one-night stands!”

“Enough,” Kyungsoo and Seungwan say at the same time.

“No one’s talking about Kyungsoo being naked,” Seungwan scolds, shoving a wrap into her fiancé’s mouth, “and Kyungsoo loves Chanyeol more than you. You don’t need to win, because you’ll never win as much as you did with me.”

The bickering transfers to the both of them, and Chanyeol picks up meat-flipping duty, only half-listening as they ask him to watch the food while they got something in the back.

He remembers too many memories trapped in the plastic booths and the 90’s themed decorations—as they were phasing out of their rookie status in their respective industries, Blue Lemonade replaced Apgujeong station.

Establishing a consistency to their brands, Chanyeol to EXO and Kyungsoo to his acting, meant schedules consumed every waking moment.

If they could afford it, if they had time to spend, they’d go here—cleverly hidden behind a highway, all quiet air and empty roads, a part of their new tradition.

Sooyoung’s ice cream would always be the first stop to their nights, her decision to keep the place running until three in the morning making it one of the few places they could go to without the dangers of alcohol or paparazzi.

Then, they’d allot their sleeping hours to walking under the stars; swinging around in empty playgrounds and talking about what they can before their bodies force them to end their escapades.

So Chanyeol watches and remembers, two-years’ worth of indirect secrets between him and the neon lights, enjoying the familiarity. Sooyoung and Seungwan were the first outside of their friends to root for Chanyeol and Kyungsoo, and had long worked with them to arrange make-up meetings for fights and quick dates for random times of the year.

“Psst,” Kyungsoo brings him back to the present again, “talk to me.”

Sooyoung and Seungwan have migrated to the counter, laughing and sharing secret smiles while preparing the ice cream.

“They’ve been so good to us,” Chanyeol says, keeping his voice low. “Just—I don’t know. Don’t think we would’ve stayed together as friends without them.”

Kyungsoo hums, getting a word or two before a snap resounds from his side. “Shit. Sorry, Yeol. Inspection. I have to go.”

“You haven’t eaten yet.”

“I’ll manage,” Kyungsoo waves, “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

It takes them a while, but when the girls bring his ice cream over, overflowing with maraschino cherries, they demand him to stand up.

“Why?”

“No questions,” Seungwan zips an imaginary zipper tight across her lips, “it’s a favor.”

He’s barely stood up when the two tackle him in a hug, knocking the breath from his lungs and leaving him dizzy. They almost careen into the other table before Chanyeol gets into a position bearing both their weights.

“Don’t be sad, Yeollie,” Seungwan says, using the nickname only Kyungsoo is allowed to, “you’ve been doing so well. Baekhyun says you’ve been more silent lately. I’ll hug you myself soon, okay?”

Chanyeol huffs out a laugh, squeezing back. “He planned this date too, didn’t he?”

“Are we allowed to say that?” Sooyoung asks Seungwan, blowing their cover.

Six hundred thirty two meters.

Blue Lemonade is only a little busy. It takes six hundred and thirty two meters to reach their favorite ice-cream shop, neon-lit windows and 90’s style booths and too-sweet rootbeer.

“Take out,” Chanyeol says, running a hand through his hair. He watches Sooyoung scoop up their regulars: a samanco for Kyungsoo, and caramel with cherries for Chanyeol.

“How’s Wendy?”

“Better,” Sooyoung smiles. Wendy had recently been in an accident, right after they’d had a big falling out. “She can walk on her own now.”

“And how are you?”

“The same.” There are dark bags under her eyes. She places the ice cream on the counter, and Chanyeol feel soft when he sees extra cherries tucked in a separate cup. “I don’t see my favorite boys all that much these days.”

The smile doesn’t leave her face, not even when she sees Chanyeol push a separate bill aside from the cost of the ice cream. She only takes it, pursing her lips.

“Has Kyungsoo been taking care of himself?”

Chanyeol drags his gaze to the figure waiting outside the shop, neon glow bouncing off his white turtleneck.

It was Chanyeol that revived their chatbox, messages dated to a short conversation a month ago, collecting dust.

_let’s go get ice cream (23:11)_

“No,” Chanyeol answers. “I don’t think so.”

_blue? sure, yeol. missed you. (23:12)_

“Good thing he has you.”

There’s that look again, the soft curl of her mouth, the knowing gaze slicing into their backs.

It’s been two years since they first walked through Blue Lemonade’s walls. Two years since Chanyeol found out he loved Kyungsoo more than he should.

Two years since they’d avoided each other, weeks of dead air between them, and two years since Joy had come and patted his shoulder, thinking they were going on a make-up date.

“Come back and talk to me when you can. I keep seeing your faces everywhere, except my shop. I want to know the gossip. How far the both of you have gone.”

 _The both of you._ Chanyeol knows what that means. The bitterness is bearable now. One has gone forward, and one has spent so long looking back.

“Ah,” Sooyoung says it like she knows more than Chanyeol does, “you’re there.”

“Where?”

Sooyoung’s words stay with him even after they leave the shop. They stay with him through Kyungsoo’s worries, and they stay with him even when Chanyeol forces them out of his mind, gone one minute, back the next, bouncing around in his head.

_He’ll come around, Chanyeol. Wait for him._

“It’s freeing,” Chanyeol mutters now, trying to clear his thoughts. They’re walking by lamplight along the road. They’re talking about his solo album. “They gave me the all-clear, so I can do more of what I want.”

“I’m excited.” Kyungsoo bites into his Samanco. “They’re going to love it.”

He throws his friend an overly suspicious glance. “Are you practicing your acting with me,” Chanyeol fake-gasps, “is this really Do Kyungsoo? Giving me a compliment?”

“Shut up,” Kyungsoo shoves him gently, “I mean it.”

Of course he does. He always did. The wind ruffles their hair, sliding into their jackets. Chanyeol knows it’s dangerous, these little episodes—knows that he’s just stringing himself along.

But their managers hold their tongue at Kyungsoo’s surprise visits now. The stylists have long stopped trying to peek at his phone. There is always a seat reserved for Chanyeol in Kyungsoo’s dressing rooms.

Permanence has already seeped into who they are.

He likes to think some people are watched over by the universe, likes to think that maybe they’re special, Chanyeol and Kyungsoo, that maybe, in the grand scheme of things, Chanyeol’s refusal to let go is proof that they’re unbreakable.

“I’m excited too.”

“But?”

Chanyeol goes to finish off his last cherry, but Kyungsoo swipes it by the stem. “But what?”

“Why are we here?” Kyungsoo’s lips close around the piece of fruit. “What’s wrong?”

“I—“ Chanyeol blinks, _don’t focus on his lips,_ “I missed you. We’ve been really busy lately, and I wanted to meet up, and Baek cancelled on those voice lessons, like I said in my text, and I—“ He’s rambling. “That’s it. I missed you.”

“Flattering.” Kyungsoo chews, throwing the stem away. “But you never just miss me enough to have ice-cream at eleven o’clock on a Tuesday. Did something happen?”

Chanyeol knows what he’d gotten into, but it still surprises him sometimes, how Kyungsoo held so much of him close, just as much as Chanyeol did. That they’ve known each other for years. That Kyungsoo loved him too.

“Come on,” Kyungsoo presses, “you’re thinking loud enough to wake a neighborhood.”

“That’s not a real thing,” Chanyeol says lamely. Kyungsoo’s gaze is enough to trap him into giving in. “I—we did a live today.”

“Schedule?” Kyungsoo asks. “Or on your own?”

“Both,” Chanyeol answers. “Put on makeup then got shoved in a hotel room to make it seem pretty. Talked nonsense with Baek and Dae for a while. Did stupid cheek hearts, laughed around.”

“The usual.”

Chanyeol hums. “I guess.”

“I thought you liked those,” Kyungsoo tilts his head to look at him.

“I liked them because I had to.”

He’d been burying this issue ever since he debuted. It makes sense for Kyungsoo to be the one to dig it back up. Here, he reminds himself, with Kyungsoo, he is safe—he won’t lower team morale or get framed as an ungrateful idol.

“They can get tiring sometimes. I don’t want you to meet the stalkers. Or the rude staff. Or the weird comments. I—“

“Want to call it quits.”

“No.” The idea is foreign as it is familiar. How many times had he thought of it? Too many. “No, I—I like what I do. Singing. And performing.”

“I know.” He turns to see Kyungsoo smirking around the bread of his ice cream fish. Bastard. “Had to get it out of the way, though. Go on.”

“I get scared. Sometimes. When I wake up on a break and I ask myself what part of me is for _them_ and what part is for me—I—it gets mixed up a lot.” 

Kyungsoo doesn’t respond, only looks out at the water below. They’re passing the bridge, where the road is busier because of the trucks doing late night deliveries.

“I mean—it’s not—I worked hard to be where I am. And I wouldn’t trade it for the world, but I don’t know—it’s just—it’s been bothering me. I’m supposed to be my own person. Park Chanyeol. Hasn’t felt like it in a long time.”

The silence presses on Chanyeol, little nudges, pockets of space waiting to be filled.

“I didn’t ask for this. I don’t know. It’s messy.”

Kyungsoo finally looks at him. Chanyeol recognizes it now; sees the expectation in his eyes, the attentive tap of his fingers.

“Have I ever told you how I prepare for the characters I play?”

Chanyeol nods. Once, maybe twice. He stares at the script until the letters burn themselves into his eyes.

“I think of you.”

Kyungsoo keeps walking. They’re past the bridge: west of the river, going through barely-lit shops and debris being blown over by the wind.

“Me?”

“I get scared too.”

They walk a bit further until they reach a bench.

Ownership through experience: this bench is framed between two trees in the springtime, two skeletons in the winter. It has a rain roof that Chanyeol’s head has bumped against once or twice, and panels that protect them from the harsh winds of midnight.

They settle down, Chanyeol to the left and Kyungsoo to the right, the same places their ghosts are trapped in, old times, younger times, carrying sentiments long gone. This bench has seen them drunk out of their minds and sober out of their hearts.

“I know those questions,” Kyungsoo says, “I know where they go. What if I become someone I don’t recognize? What if the person I know I am gets replaced by the person I need to be?”

Kyungsoo tells him that some things are harder for the world to change, and that some things are easier. Some things that belong to you get carried away like leaves in rivers, dandelion seeds caught in spring winds, or stay, boulders splitting the water currents, pine trees rooted on rocks.

“Sometimes all you’ll have left is an empty space of where they used to be, the things that you loved.” Kyungsoo takes the last bite, crumples the wrapper up in a fist. “Turn away for long enough and you’ll look back and see nothing, turn back around and suddenly the room holding everything you are is filled with things you’ve never seen before.”

Green wallpaper instead of blue. Seaweed soup to replace the carp bread eaten after park dates. A guitar in place of a lego set, a handsome brown coat to replace the warmth of a childhood blanket.

“It’s okay,” Kyungsoo says, looking out into the quiet streets, “to not know where they came from, because you’re sure as hell it wasn’t you that placed them there. Life’s a piece of shit like that. Always changing.”

He tells him that he feels the fear of characters coming too close to his heart. He tells him of how they seep into his hands, little tics and gestures, and when everything doesn’t feel like it should, he turns to Chanyeol.

_—three centimeters: the space between their soundwave rings, nestled in a silver box—two point five meters: kyungsoo in his airport clothes, a bouquet of flowers in his hands—I know I’m too late to the concert but I didn’t want to go to Japan without you because we promised we’d go together and I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you sing—one meter: chanyeol, throwing himself at kyungsoo for a hug, they’ve grown into those, memorized the way their arms link around each other’s backs—you remembered—_

_—you’re my best friend. of course I’d remember—_

He says that as long as a part of the Kyungsoo he becomes carries a small piece of Chanyeol with him, he will know that no matter how many characters make a home inside his soul, they will never have Chanyeol like he does.

“And I promise you you’re the same kid. Fanservice never changed that. Your purple hair won’t either. Not any interview. Not any show.”

Kyungsoo leans against him, and it’s instinct—Chanyeol opens up his side, curling his arm around Kyungsoo’s shoulder. Despite his freezing fingers, Kyungsoo is warm, heat radiating from where back rests against Chanyeol’s chest.

He’s always been warm—always in the ways that mattered.

“You’re my constant,” Kyungsoo confesses. He makes the words sound delicate. Fragile. “I’m not saying I should be yours. But it helps to have one.”

Chanyeol doesn’t know why the idea fills him with fear. _You’re my constant._ Nothing with Chanyeol truly ever stays. Not for long.

“What if I don’t—what if I can’t do that?”

This, Kyungsoo meets with silence. He makes Chanyeol wait, and between one rub of a finger against his palm and the next, Chanyeol realizes that he’s gathering something.

Courage, maybe confidence. The strength to say _that’s something you should figure out on your own because I have my own problems to deal with—_

“Then I’m willing to walk or sit or run with you until this city wakes up to help you find it," Kyungsoo breathes out, voice thick. "I know you’re scared, and I know it’s because you think you’ll change."

Chanyeol almost doesn't believe it: doesn't believe that anyone knows him well enough to be able to pull the fears from the parts he'd hidden from the world. But here Kyungsoo is.

"I’m saying that in a world that forces you to take up new things and leave them behind the next second, I’ll be the one thing you can rely on to stay.”

The poetry books don’t mention this; and neither do the songs on his playlist—they don’t warn about the things yawning up inside him, and he’s confident only the purest people can evoke it—the sheer awe that comes with offering yourself for the sake of another.

One second. Two. Three.

“You’re perfect,” Chanyeol meeks out, because what is there to say? Only this friendship, one in a million, only this moment, once in a lifetime. There is nothing he can offer back. “You’re amazing.”

One second. Two. Three.

“I know.”

One second. Two. Three.

Kyungsoo suddenly pushes off out of their hug. “You’re never hearing me say that again, by the way.”

Chanyeol barks out a laugh. “Gods.”

Kyungsoo pouts, somehow knowing that he needs time, and space, and humor would be the way to do it. He’s perfect. _Perfect._ “I’m serious.”

“One more time,” Chanyeol asks. The smile is being ripped from his soul. He’s doing it so wide it hurts.

“No.”

“Say it again, Kyungsoo. I thought you were willing to go through everything.” 

“Not when you’re being a little shit about it.”

“There’s nothing little about me.”

“I can think of one thing that’s little about you.”

“Hey!”

That has Kyungsoo laughing too: head thrown back, crinkles in the corner of his eyes. He looks younger like this, Chanyeol thinks. Better when he’s happy. Best when Chanyeol is the cause of his happiness.

“I didn’t say what it was,” Kyungsoo says, and Chanyeol banishes the thought before it gets a proper hold on his mind. “Any offense you’re feeling is entirely your fault. Why, Chanyeol? What’s the one little thing about you?”

“Fucker.”

“You love me anyway,” Kyungsoo throws back, a simple sentiment, said so many other times, but the split-second it takes Chanyeol to answer gives it weight like it has never known before.

“I do,” he says, looking everywhere but Kyungsoo. “Thank you. Uhm. For tonight. For staying. For—shit man—everything, I guess.”

Kyungsoo bumps his shoulder. “Don’t make it weird.”

Chanyeol returns the action. “It’s already weird.”

“And whose fault is that? Dumbass.” But after a moment’s hesitation, Kyungsoo whispers, “me too. With you.”

“With?”

“That.”

“What, are you scared to say it?”

“I hate you.”

“Just say it once, Kyungsoo. I’ll never bring it up again.”

“You haven’t even really said it yourself!”

“I love you.”

Kyungsoo wrinkles his nose. “Pass.”

“I love you,” Chanyeol says, twisting his syllables into sing-song, knowing this script, feeling a familiar warmth trickle through his chest. It’s simple. It’s the easiest thing he’s ever had to admit tonight. “Say it back or you’re a bad friend.”

“No.”

“I love you.”

“Quit it.”

“I love you. Can’t you hear my heart breaking, Kyungsoo? Say it back.”

“Chanyeol, I swear to god—“

“I love you,” Chanyeol gets into his space, leaning forward, so close he can see the tips of his lashes, the slope of his nose. The fall of his hair against the midnight sky.

“Come on, I love you—“

It’s in this position that Kyungsoo says it— “I love you too”—it’s only for a single second, but they both freeze, trapped, the proximity suddenly too much, and Chanyeol refuses to think about the heat blossoming through his body, traveling upwards to his neck, his chest, his _ears,_ the thorns ripping him open—

_—is this not what you wanted?—_

“Are you happy now?” Kyungsoo tries, obligatory annoyance still lacing his lips. _I love you too._

They push themselves apart. They eventually go separate ways, stuttered goodbyes rushed on their tongues, hearts beating too loud against their ribs.

Chanyeol will crawl into bed and have Kyungsoo’s words hit him full force as he’s staring up at the ceiling. He’ll cling to them as he falls asleep, turning them over and over.

 _~~I love you too.~~ _ _You’re my constant._

He’ll wake up asking if Kyungsoo can be his.

 _You don’t need permission,_ Kyungsoo will text back, and everything will be right with the cruel, constantly changing world.

But now, the night watches.

It sees something heavier being left behind the old bus stop, down by the bridge. It guards the imprint of their hands against the seats, the vulnerability left amongst the metal railings.

The stars have come out. They’ve been chasing them for so long.

_I love you too._

_—half a meter: the distance Chanyeol’s arm has to cover to reach Jin’s thighs, someone else’s name right on the tip of his tongue—two centimeters: the chime of messages, coming into Chanyeol’s phone—who is he? you haven’t mentioned him before, that’s all—no, don’t bother, I wouldn’t want to interrupt, I’ll go ahead—_

_~~as long as it takes~~ _

_—one meter: Baekhyun’s knowing look, he’s jealous, channie—five kilometers, twenty three meters: the space beside him is empty, his member’s voice ringing in his ears— the both of you have been waiting for so long —the train station where they met, the bus stop where they laughed, the road they marked as their own—_

_~~they say home isn’t a place~~ _

_—fifty meters: I love you—forty meters: I love you I love you I love you—twenty meters: the door to kyungsoo’s dressing room—ten meters: his feet pounding through the floors, his hand on the doorknob—five meters: a girl in kyungsoo’s lap, hair messy and lips stained—_

_—zero meters. the sound of his chest caving in; the prick of tears in his eyes—wait wait wait, chanyeol please, come back to me; yeol yeol yeol—his name sounds like a curse—kyungsoo’s fingers miss him by an inch—_

_—apgujeong station is packed. people are jostling him, shoulder against shoulder—there’s too many bodies; this isn’t the train station he knows, not the train station he loves—_

_baek, could you give me a ride?_

_why? did something happen?_

_nothing_

_nothing happened_

_i’m fine_

_just a little too late_

_—too far, too wide: the distance between him and the stars, third empty soju bottle in his hand—baekhyun’s advice in his mind, kyungsoo’s words in his heart—_

_—nothing can separate the both of you_

_everything has already tried—_

_is there anything you want to say, yeol?_

_~~i hate you~~ nothing._

_i was just shocked, i promise_

“Where are you?”

“Guess.” Chanyeol brings the mic closer to his lips. The wind is whipping at his face, making his hair fly every which way. It’s still early in the morning, sky barely alight. Cars rumble down the street below. Pedestrians litter the sidewalks with cups of coffee.

“Rooftop,” Kyungsoo says, the sound of cutlery clashing together in the background. They must be finishing up breakfast. “What are you doing?”

“Fresh air.”

He sits against the ledge, watching his reflection on the glass. This part of the apartment wasn’t cheap to privatize. It used to be a smoking area, a slice of space separated by a glass wall, but Chanyeol had paid to install a heavy tint on its surface, along with a locking mechanism on its side.

The space isn’t fully his _,_ but he could lock it when he needed privacy and quiet, and no one would demand entry.

“Wanted to watch the sunrise.”

“Turn the camera around,” Kyungsoo orders, “so I can watch it with you.”

“And you say I’m corny.”

“Aish,” Kyungsoo clicks his tongue. “Just do it. I haven’t watched anything with my boyfriend in ages. All the sun does where I am is make the kitchen hotter.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, shifting, “I’ll take you on so many early morning beach picnics you’ll get sick of them. Then you’ll never want to see a sunrise ever again.”

He switches to the back camera. 

“I think I’d still go on those trips,” Kyungsoo says, “because the face you make when you see something like that is worth it. You glow. You’d be so pretty. That’s going to be better to watch than anything else anyway. I’ll never get tired of it.”

Chanyeol feels his heart burst, high above everyone else _—_ _how could it not—_ but he manages to whistle appreciatively, “Kyungsoo, have you been practicing?”

His boyfriend laughs, deep and resonant. “I guess I just miss you.”

"Yeah?" For a moment, he lets himself forget everything else. It's only them and Seoul and the sun peeking behind the skyscrapers. “How much?”

The watery light of the morning is winning the battle against the lingering darkness of night. Dawn is always so much more subtle than sundown—a gentle beginning, instead of a messy end.

“As much as you want me to,” Kyungsoo smiles, “and then some.”

Thirty-three kilometers: the distance between the bar they’d been in and Chanyeol’s apartment. 

“Are you good now?” Baekhyun asks, rubbing a hand across Chanyeol’s back. “Me and Dae have to start on home.”

Chanyeol doesn’t look away from the lights below, blinking in and out of existence. “Be careful,” he slurs out. “It’s late.”

“We booked a taxi.”

Chanyeol wants to stay and freeze until his heart shrivels into ice. It would be better that way, he thinks, better if the tightness in his chest cracked into unsalvageable shrapnel and took him along to break with it.

“Hey,” Jongdae comes over and hugs him. His limbs are heavy. Warm. He doesn’t want warmth. He wants to finally break so he can start picking the pieces back up together. “This will pass.”

_—ten meters: the distance between the karaoke room and chanyeol—moving the curtains aside to reveal a pretty girl, clinging to kyungsoo’s arm—_

_—yeol, this is nayeon—_

_—hi, nice to meet you! ~~you look good together~~ —_

_—five meters: baekhyun and jongdae, stealing looks from the other side of the couch—one meter: let’s get drunk, channie; a rooftop, wall dark and lonely, no one but himself to blame—the wind stinging his cheeks, it’s been years, let him go, man—_

“Can’t it pass any faster?” Chanyeol mumbles against his shoulder. “I’m tired of this.”

“I don’t think so,” Jongdae whispers. “Baek might kill me if he hears me say this to you. He loves pushing people. Thinks everything can be changed. But some things—some things you just can’t force, Channie. I want to say the same things he does. I want to say you’re closer and closer to getting over him.”

Jongdae pulls back. The cold rushes back in.

“But you’re not.”

Chanyeol decides that whatever Jongdae said is worth more bottles of alcohol to properly forget.

_—a name, do kyungsoo—one: a fact, anger, hot tears gathering in the corners of his eyes; i love you—two: a promise, faith, his head meeting the rails, fingers curling around his soundwave ring; i’ll love you as much as you’ll let me—three: a killing blow, defeat, his voice breaking, knees hitting the floor; how long will you keep doing this to me; it doesn’t matter, does it? i’ll keep waiting for you—_

Fifty-three floors: the distance between the lobby and the rooftop. Fake, conjured best friends can’t travel that far. They couldn’t possibly.

“Chanyeol.” It’s Kyungsoo. “Hey, _god,_ how many—“

“Go away,” Chanyeol mutters to the apparition, “you’re the last person I want to see right now.”

Hurt blooms across its face. Out of all the ways his mind could fuck up, it chooses the worst one: chooses to force him to see the person he’d drunk through a whole case of beer to forget.

“Inside.” He doesn’t know how he feels the pressure of an apparition’s skin on his. “Now.”

“Don’t you fucking _touch_ me,” Chanyeol growls. He doesn’t know how a vision feels warm, safe. He just knows that it isn’t wanted. He just knows that it _hurts._

“Jesus, Chanyeol, you’re bleeding.”

“That’s one way to put it,” he spits out, “you suddenly worried about me?”

“Enough.” The vision plucks a soju bottle from his hands. Was he holding that? “If you wanted to drink, you should’ve just called me. Come on. Up, up, up.”

Chanyeol’s tongue is heavy against the roof of his mouth. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

Maybe something about false hope. Maybe something angry about not being able to move on. Maybe everything about Kyungsoo.

He can’t go two steps without falling forward, but somehow, he makes it to the door, and then the elevator, and then the bathroom, lights casting shadows everywhere, tiles cold on his bare feet.

Something grazes at his hand, pain shooting up from his palm. He looks down: a red cotton ball is making strokes across his fingers.

It comes through a haze in his mind: he’d smashed a bottle against the railings, watched his blood run red against his skin.

“Stay put.” It’s Kyungsoo again. How many bottles did he drink? “You’re getting a scolding in the morning.”

“You’re still here,” Chanyeol squints. “What the fuck?”

Kyungsoo glares up at him. He’s level with Chanyeol’s face—knees on the floor. “I’m real, dumbass.”

His alcohol-soaked brain decides that there’s only one way to find out.

Chanyeol tips forward.

Their lips collide, and Kyungsoo lets out a surprised sound that travels into Chanyeol’s throat. His friend tastes like the lip balm Chanyeol steals from his bag: strawberry and honey and menthol.

Chanyeol closes his eyes. He does it again. And again. And again. If his brain wants him to suffer, then he’ll steal as much as he can from this. One kiss. Two. Six, maybe. All quick, all little tests of reality.

“You see?” Chanyeol pulls away, because he remembers that he can’t afford to get used to the impossible things, “you’re not moving. Or rejecting me. You’re a liaaaar. Fuck, the hangover’s going to kill me tomorrow.”

The words are last things he says before nausea hits him like a freight train. His stomach heaves in on itself. Acid climbs up his throat. Bile comes out: he hadn’t eaten anything for dinner.

Everything is bitter, bitter, bitter.

Chanyeol rests his head against the toilet and closes his eyes.

_—a dream: kyungsoo’s voice, low and steady. his hands against chanyeol’s waist, lathering chanyeol’s hair. chanyeol follows everything he says. he asks a question—chanyeol forgets immediately—_ _~~I love you~~ _ _—everything is tinted with Kyungsoo: his eyes, his hair, soft hoodies with his pine scent, he doesn’t want it to end—_

_—a promise: kyungsoo, pressing a kiss to his forehead, it won’t, whispers against the night, chanyeol hears the fear in his syllables, it won’t end, you just have to properly start it—_

Chanyeol is stumbling his way through the kitchen when Kyungsoo walks in. The throbbing in his head had him dizzy for the first few hours since he’d woken up, so when he sees Kyungsoo at the door, hair wind-blown, collarbones peeking through the dip of Chanyeol’s shirt, he thinks he’s dreaming again.

“I’m real,” Kyungsoo says. He won’t look at Chanyeol, and by the time he's placed boxes of takeout on the counter, Chanyeol’s pieced it together. “Eat. Then we talk.”

Dread grips Chanyeol in a vise. His words come back to him. He can still taste Kyungsoo, the ghost of his lip balm lingering on his tongue. _I’m real._ “Did I—“

“Yes.”

Oh _fuck._ “Did we—“

“No.”

“Did you really—“

“Yes,” Kyungsoo snaps his head up, mouth set in a tight line, and Chanyeol shrinks. He’s angry. Everything that happened last night was real, and Kyungsoo is angry. “Eat.”

Sunlight seeps in through Chanyeol’s curtains. They sit, cross-legged on the floor, small table holding the food, tension between them so thick Chanyeol craves for a knife to cut it with. Their chopsticks click together. Footsteps resound through the hallway. The world will not wait for them.

Everything tastes like ash and rejection.

“I love you too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“What?”

“What did you say,” Chanyeol breathes, _“what did you say?”_

“I said I love you too.”

Dust dances in a ray of sun behind him. The footsteps continue. The rumble of cars below crashes through their silence. Kyungsoo loves him.

“You confessed last night.”

“You love me.” Chanyeol repeats. “You love me?”

Kyungsoo climbs into his lap. Chanyeol only watches him, nerves focusing on the acute weight of him through his core, eyes focusing on the strands of hair falling across his face.

“I love you.” Kyungsoo brings their foreheads close, breaths mingling together. “I love you too.”

“When?” Chanyeol chokes out. _When did you start loving me?_

“I’ve been loving you for so long,” Kyungsoo replies. “I don’t know when. All I know is I love you. That I don’t deserve you, but that you deserve everything you’ve ever wanted.”

“I want you." Chanyeol can barely get past the lump in his throat. "And you’re sure about wanting this? About me?”

“My Yeol,” Kyungsoo laughs quietly, and he’s brilliant _,_ starbursts shining in the syllables of his amusement. “My Yeol. There’s no part of you that I don’t want.”

Kyungsoo teaches him that happiness can be painful—how it curls around your heart, warmth stealing away your breaths, and electricity sparking through your bones.

“If I wake up right now I’m going to be so pissed,” Chanyeol breathes out, his very soul clinging to Kyungsoo’s words. His mouth hurts. He must be smiling. “Slap me.”

“You don’t trust me?” Kyungsoo teases softly, “I thought you loved me.”

“Kiss me so I can be sure.”

Kyungsoo brings a hand to cup Chanyeol’s jaw, pulling them apart. They come together, gentle but deep, and it’s all Chanyeol can do to bring his hand around Kyungsoo’s neck, snake his arm around Kyungsoo’s waist.

Kyungsoo smiles against his lips, and Chanyeol almost proposes marriage—his heart doesn’t know what to do, not when it’s spent so long denying the signs, and it’s then that Chanyeol realizes how similar hope and happiness might feel like, how bright—

He remembers something. He pushes Kyungsoo away, forces himself to not be cowed by the confusion in his eyes. “Nayeon,” Chanyeol mutters. “You’re dating Nayeon.”

Her name throws a bucket of water over the both of them.

“We broke up last night.” Kyungsoo bunches a fist into the front of his sweater to prevent him from going any further. “It was a mutual agreement, I promise. She has a Chanyeol of her own. That’s how—that’s how we got close. You can call her if you want. Or meet her.”

“A Chanyeol of her own?”

“Ah.” Kyungsoo’s eyes widen at his slip. “She has…yes. That.”

“A Chanyeol of her own.”

“Someone she’s loved for a long time,” Kyungsoo admits. Red blooms on the tips of his ears. “Someone she thinks she’ll never have. We’ve never done anything more than hold hands, but you name what it’ll take to convince you and I’ll—“

He doesn’t finish; Chanyeol’s covered his mouth with his, cutting him off. He slides his tongue along Kyungsoo’s teeth, runs his palms down his arms. Nayeon fades away with every flutter of Kyungsoo’s lashes.

She doesn’t matter now.

“You were my Chanyeol,” Chanyeol says, when they break apart. He kisses Kyungsoo until he relaxes, murmurs _it’s alright_ until the tension ebbs from his limbs. “Weird to say, but here we are.”

Kyungsoo looks at him, silent.

He presses a kiss to the back of Chanyeol’s right hand, and then Chanyeol’s left. Then his collarbones. Then his jaw, then his brow. He does it so reverently, the way his mouth glides along his skin, the way his hands ghost under Chanyeol’s shirt.

Chanyeol is one of the biggest idols in South Korea.

He’s never known worship like this.

“I’ll love you,” Kyungsoo promises. “I’ll love you the best I can. This was impossible until last night. I’m not wasting any moment with you.”

“Kyungsoo,” Chanyeol kisses him, hoping against hope that it’s enough, that Kyungsoo understands just how willing Chanyeol is to take the stars and put them in a jar if that’s what Kyungsoo wanted, “Kyungsoo.”

_—a reality chanyeol forces himself to believe: kyungsoo’s hair fanning across his pillow, lips lazy as they slide against his; kyungsoo’s groans, voice beautiful—chanyeol, let me come—please please please—kyungsoo’s hands, bolts of pleasure right after the other; clutching kyungsoo close, as if they have all the time in the world—_

_—chanyeol, chanyeol, chanyeol_ _—_ _i know this isn’t fair, but could you promise me something?—_ _anything for you—_ _promise me this won’t end_ _—_

_—chanyeol pulling kyungsoo into himself, arms tight around his trembling form—i’ll love you, he promises instead—they both know what it’s like to live with false hope, but it feels so real the words almost escape his lips; i promise this won’t end—but chanyeol is used to holding himself back—i’ll love you i’ll love you i’ll love you—_

“Where are you?”

“Guess,” Chanyeol says. The traffic they’re caught up in is heavy, cars bumper-to-bumper as they navigate the roads. “It’s not exact though, so it might be hard to get right.”

Monggu is sitting patiently in the backseat, smelling like lemons. (Ironically, it’s his owner that smells like dog.) Jongin swipes the phone from where it’s perched on the main dashboard.

“Hyung,” he waves, “I took your boyfriend on a date.”

“I’m glad he’s getting attention,” Kyungsoo says, “lord knows he’ll die without it—“

“Hey!”

“—which is why you’re my favorite, Nini. Why am I talking to a dog tongue right now?” 

“I asked Chanyeol-hyung to help me get Monggu to the vet,” Jongin laughs, pushing Monggu back, “she’s been limping for days. My car won’t be in till tomorrow, so hyung made me treat him to lunch in exchange for using his.”

“Where’d you eat?”

“The takoyaki place. The one on top of the bar.”

“Apgujeong? Rodeo?”

Chanyeol glances at the screen Jongin brings up to his face. Kyungsoo is in his turtleneck, the one they shopped for before he enlisted. It’s all brown grass and empty bleachers behind him, hair fluttering around his forehead: he’d probably gone outside the barracks.

“Ya, Park Chanyeol.”

“Ya, Do Kyungsoo.”

“That's _our_ place," Kyungsoo accuses, "as in, 'no bringing anyone else without the person I share this place with' place. Are you trying to replace me?”

“I am,” Chanyeol replies, throwing a kiss with his lips, “Jongin should do nicely. Quiet, cute, playful like me. Sorry you had to find out this way.”

“Should’ve known you’d cheat on me,” Kyungsoo sighs in fake disappointment, “this is payback for the Hongki thing, isn’t it?”

“Bastard. Do you really think I’m that petty?”

“Yes.”

“It’s no problem,” Chanyeol waves him off. "You can hold any man’s biceps as much as you like. It’s not like you have a boyfriend that’s named one of the top ten most eligible bachelors in Korea.”

“Feed that ego any more and you’ll know what it’s truly like to be a bachelor,” Kyungsoo mutters, “I was just holding on.”

“What, because you were hanging from a tree?” Chanyeol raises an eyebrow. “You couldn’t hold on to his shoulders or something?”

“You’re impossible when you’re jealous. Should we just break up?”

Chanyeol turns left on the corner. The vet is right beside the hospital: a small clinic with a tarpaulin of kittens in its front.

“Break up?” Chanyeol smiles, the dose of fondness sending infinite patience through his bones. Kyungsoo’s smiling too. “The second that instagram post went public, we both turned single. Jongin’s better anyway, aren’t you, babe?”

Jongin has That Face on: the one fans have cropped and turned into a meme, the one with his eyebrows raised in a mix of doubt and entertainment, bottom lip jutting out in an attempt to polite.

“Someone should run a social experiment on the both of you,” Jongin says, curiosity in his eyes. “What will an actual breakup look like? A contract? Will it be like a divorce? Lawyers and suits and all that shit?”

Chanyeol thinks of it as their way of reassuring each other—breaking up as a joke will be all that it is, that the promise will forever remain empty.

(There was one time Kyungsoo roped Chanyeol into tricking their friends about a breakup, and they’d ended it by shouting out character names for Kyungsoo’s upcoming movie.)

“And besides,” Jongin adds, “all Chanyeol hyung talked about while we were there was you anyway. Kyungsoo this, Kyungsoo that.”

“Hey,” Chanyeol cuts in, feeling his ears flame up. “I didn’t talk about him _that_ much.”

“Hyung,” Jongin takes the phone away to where Chanyeol can’t reach, “I know how many spoons of chili you put into your takoyaki. Three, right? And you poke a hole to make them cool faster. And you like the booth next to the windows the best. And—“

Chanyeol suddenly honks the car, surprising Jongin into stopping.

“Idiots,” he mutters, glaring at a filled intersection, “thinking everything is race. We could’ve hit them.”

“Hyung, we’re at a stop sign.”

“Leave him.” The challenge in Kyungsoo’s voice says he’ll never let it go. “He’s just embarrassed.”

“I am _not._ ”

“Yeah?”

Three years of being boyfriends means Kyungsoo’s playfulness has morphed along to Chanyeol’s competitive spirit; but Chanyeol still doesn’t have a definitive reaction to when Kyungsoo gets like this—all edgy humor and fond jibes; when his lips pull up into a subtle grin, eyes shining to get the upper hand—

“What else does he notice about me, Nini?”

—and Chanyeol will have no choice but to let him win. 

“You roll them around in the sauce when you talk,” Chanyeol announces before Jongin can answer, focusing on the road. “And you like the shrimp ones the best, but you put up with the octopus ones because I like ordering the couple combos. You're the neatest person I've ever met, but you leave sauce on the side of your lips so I can wipe it off. You like locking your ankles with mine under the table, and you put your hand over mine because you know you can’t hold it in public.”

They hand over money for basement parking.

“Bet Jongin couldn’t have told you that.”

“Damn right I couldn’t,” Jongin says, “I would’ve thrown up. God, the both of you are disgusting. Get that shit away from me.”

“Grumpy,” Kyungsoo turns his teasing on to someone else. “When’s the last time you felt the touch of someone in bed? How long has that dry spell been, Nini?”

“Shorter than yours will be,” Jongin throws back, “how much longer, hyung? Ten months?”

“Walked right into that one,” Chanyeol laughs.

They bicker for the rest of Kyungsoo’s break, and by the time they reach the vet, the sun has already started to go below the horizon.

Chanyeol pulls his cap on low again, helping Jongin with his mask. Monggu is waiting patiently in his arms, the very picture of obedience. His left paw is bandaged, owing to the emergency kit in Jongin’s closet.

“I wish Toben was more like you,” Chanyeol brings his face close to Monggu’s. “You don’t hate Jongin, do you?”

The dog only tries to lick his nose in reply.

Jongin goes in alone, because two EXO members in one place are worse than one, leaving Chanyeol to pass time in the car.

He eventually gets bored and climbs out, careful to wear his puffy overcoat and tucking his cap over his ears, gone to get some ramyeon from a convenience store.

People flitter in through the streets, students going home, patients’ guardians crowding the food stands. The lamplights are starting to turn on.

He takes a picture of the hospital, sterile white walls towering over the buildings beside it, and sends it to Kyungsoo.

_i’m here again_

_i’m not with you, but i’m healthier now!!!!_

_that means i fulfilled my promise, right?_

Twenty meters: the distance Chanyeol makes before ripping his mic off.

He almost crashes into one of the MCs. He barely makes it to the dressing rooms, achieved only by following Baekhyun’s silver hair. Nausea sits heavy on his tongue, a sick lightness going through his limbs.

At least everything’s done now, he thinks. At least he didn’t fuck the choreography up. At least he didn’t vomit in an awards show.

“Chanyeol?” Junmyeon’s voice is far away. Everything is spinning. “Chanyeol!”

He doesn’t feel it, his fall to the ground, there's no impact, only the faces crowding his vision, hands settling on his shoulders, fingers pressing on his neck.

 _I can’t hear you_ , he wants to say, even when snippets make it through the haze in his mind, _I can’t understand you_ would be better, and his member’s shiny costumes slide against his skin, the staff’s black shirts and wires jumble across his head—

—his stomach pulls him into consciousness, bile and blood spilling onto his shirt, and the tightness in his chest knocks him back out of it—

The next things he knows is the rush of an ambulance, someone’s hand on his.

“Yeol?”

He knows that voice; knows that name. “Soo,” he mumbles, pure instinct driving him. He repeats it, he doesn’t know what he’s saying, just that it’s a safe place, and that if he says it enough times he'll be alright. 

* 

“—should be fine.”

Chanyeol blinks blearily against the lights. The room comes to him slowly: white sheets blending in with white walls, blue uniforms stationed along polished tiles. There’s an IV drip attached to his wrist.

The weight beside him is wearing a shimmering black suit, unbuttoned, exposing a red shirt underneath. A watch, metal cold where it touches Chanyeol skin—hair slicked back with gel, eyelids swatched in gold, handsome face buried under folded arms.

The person he loves, jolting up when he feels Chanyeol shift, looking around in alarm.

“He lives another day.” Junmyeon. And Baekhyun. And Sehun. “Made quite the scene back there. You okay, Chanyeol?”

“Sorry hyung,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. The instagram post caption is already forming in his head. “Was it too much trouble?”

“It was the type of trouble we needed,” Baekhyun says, followed by a sharp slap. “Ow! I mean, we’re all sorry you fainted because you dehydrated yourself.”

“Stylist made me do it,” Chanyeol’s syllables mix together. “Said I needed to look sharp for my see-through shirt.”

“Jihoon said she’s gone,” Sehun butts in. “Got a scolding from another manager, then fired on the set because she got caught stealing Red Velvet’s shoes.”

The conversation flits by.

It’s only half-past midnight; his members fresh from the now-finished awards show. They won again—the award is acknowledge with a nod. EXO's comeback is postponed for three months; owing to footage of Chanyeol collapsing backstage; shared through all networking sites.

(Footage of Kyungsoo leaving in the middle of his category getting announced goes viral too, but they don't dwell on it.)

News stations are parked outside the hospital. Bodyguards are littered through the exits, and their managers have formed a network to coordinate efforts. 

At some point, fingers had laced through his, and Chanyeol focuses on the trembling thumb tracing circles on his skin, using it as an anchor. Everything else slowly fades into white noise. 

A pair of lips press themselves on his forehead, feather soft, and it’s only then that he opens his eyes. “Soo.”

“Did I wake you?” Kyungsoo whispers. He’s changed into a shirt and sweatpants, hair falling over his brows. Chanyeol must have fallen asleep if he’s had time to take a bath and change. “They’ve all gone home. Sehun’s going to bring in breakfast tomorrow. Rest, Yeol.”

“Why are you shaking?”

Kyungsoo quickly pulls away, pasting a watery smile on his face. “Just got scared for a while. Go on. We both need sleep.”

But Chanyeol sees the chatter of his teeth, the goosebumps on his skin. “You’re cold.”

“I have a blanket.”

“Sleep with me.”

“In a hospital?” Kyungsoo levels a skeptical look on him, “I know you’re kinky, but—“

It’s probably the first laugh Chanyeol’s ever let out since last night. “You know what I meant. Stop complaining. I want cuddles.”

“We’re…” Kyungsoo’s eyes rove across the room, to the ceilings, to the doorknob. _In public._ Chanyeol’s threshold for privacy has long worn thin.

“We can lock it. And then separate in the morning.”

“It’s too risky.”

“Hold me then,” Chanyeol tries. He refuses to go to sleep disappointed. The night was already bad enough. “Just until I fall asleep. Please? What's a guy have to do to exploit pity around here?”

"Oh, shut up." 

_—zero meters: kyungsoo’s warmth, pressing into his side, hair tickling chanyeol’s nose, and he loves him—kyungsoo, burying his head against his chest, sob being pulled right out of his throat—his fingers bunching on the blanket, silent tremors, shoulders heaving with every shaky breath—i was so scared—they said you were in an ambulance and i thought—they said it was bad—_

_—chanyeol’s arms tightening around his middle, kisses on his wet lashes, his cheekbones, his lips—i’m sorry i made you worry—unspoken words a noose around both their forms—but you know how normal these things are to people like us—_

_—seventeen kilometers: the distance between the studio and the hospital—kyungsoo’s manager, voice worried—there’s been an accident—a clock striking midnight, numbers telling he’d been too long without sleep—i’m fine, i can stay—the feel of kyungsoo’s thumb swiping at something on his cheeks—_

_jongin's hands urging him to stand up;_

_hyung, it’s not your fault_

_—ruined flowers beside kyungsoo’s hospital bed, a dilapidated box of chanyeol’s favorite chocolates thrown in the trash—the manager saying how the car swerved into traffic, the doctor saying how lucky kyungsoo is—the driver defending himself with kyungsoo’s request, “he was going to be late to someone’s birthday”—_

_it kinda is, jongin_

_—twelve centimeters: chanyeol holding his pinky out, promise me—twelve centimeters: what?—ten centimeters: you have to do it!—you’re so childish—five centimeters: just do it!—zero centimeters: the curl of a pinky promise, the softness of kyungsoo’s thumb against his, the next time we’re visiting this place will be for a reason that doesn’t make us cry—_

“Where are you?”

“Hey, guess what I’m cooking,” Chanyeol waves a spoon to the camera, the same time Baekhyun shrieks _Kyungja_ from the living room. Footsteps follow, closer and closer, “ah, maybe not—“

“Kyungja,” Baekhyun yanks the phone from his hand before Kyungsoo can get a single word in, “when are you coming back?”

“Hyunnie, have you been well—“

“Yes, yes,” Baekhyun waves him off, “now when are you coming back?”

“December. But I’m not allowed to do anything official until January, so it’ll be a good month before everything gets busy again.”

“Your boyfriend—” Baekhyun reaches up to grip Chanyeol’s jaw, bringing his face down near the pasta so he can level with Baekhyun’s, “—is ruining EXO’s brand.”

“What?”

“All he’s been churning out is sad shit! One more day without you and he’ll have us dance to ballads, and it’ll be approved because he’ll somehow make it amazing. Can’t you fuck the cry-inducing lyrics out of him sooner?”

Kyungsoo’s laugh echoes through their practice rooms. The faint sound of someone belting reaches Chanyeol’s phone. He must be in rehearsals. The musical had been hell to get tickets for, but he knows he wouldn’t miss it for the world.

“EXO has pulled off ballads in the past,” Kyungsoo says, “it’s going to be fine.”

“Baek, the songs I sent in were about hope.”

“But you made me listen to that special folder—you even asked if Kyungsoo would like it…” Baekhyun’s eyes go wide, but it’s too late.

“When will people stop exposing me,” Chanyeol grumbles, swiping the phone from Baekhyun’s hands, “Soo, how much of that did you hear?”

“I’ll just act surprised when it happens. Whatever it is.” Kyungsoo places his phone to rest on his knees. He’s wearing Chanyeol’s beanie again. “What are you cooking? And why is there music?”

“Kyungsoo help us, he’s been so sappy—“

Chanyeol kicks Baekhyun away before he can expose him even more. At least he has the heat of the fire to excuse the flaming in his cheeks. “Just trying things out,” he coughs, stirring the rice, “I’ve been bored these days.”

“So you made songs about me?”

“Don't." 

“I’m kidding,” Kyungsoo chuckles. He looks strikingly handsome in his black shirt, and Chanyeol has to stop himself from staring. “Why is Baekhyun there?” 

“It’s cheat day.” Chanyeol goes over to plate the tteokbeokki. “They decided my apartment would be the best place to deliver food to. And also probably because I got a new VR set.”

“I’d say control your spending, but what’s the point?”

Chanyeol’s ready defense dies on his tongue. He squints at the screen. “You’re not mad?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“I also got a new electric guitar, a new showerhead, new curtains, and new shoes.”

“If it makes you happy.”

“I also bought you your birthday gift from Prada—“

_“What?”_

“Ah.” Chanyeol quickly backs up at the glare Kyungsoo manages to pull off. "Has the military made you scarier than usual? It’s not too expensive Soo, I promise—“

“You return it _right now_.”

“It’s non-refundable,” Chanyeol chuckles nervously. “Hey, remember when you taught me how to make the perfect scrambled eggs in this kitchen and I fell for you all over again, it was romantic wasn’t it—“

_“Park Chanyeol.”_

“You won’t even notice beside everything else I got you—“

“There’s _more?”_

“Probablymoreclothesfromburberry, they’re calling me, I have to go, I love you, do great in your rehearsals, I’ll be sure to hype it on my instagram!“

“Yeol!" 

Twenty-three hours.

The clock on the bedside table reads 1:34 AM. He’d hoped sleep would force its way into his eyes—hoped that the exhaustion he’d earned throughout the day would give him rest.

While dance practice was something he’d dreaded ever since he was a trainee, today he gave his all to it: repeating sequences over and over until a pile of wet shirts made a home in his bag.

Jongin came in from choreographing another boy group’s dance to tell him to stop. Baekhyun was the first to invite him home— _hey, take a rest_ —and then Sehun, and then Junmyeon, and then Jongdae—all of which failed. In the end, it was the cleaner that forced him out; saying he had to “collect the buckets of sweat on the floor."

He’d taken a run right before going to sleep, convinced that it would be the thing that knocked him out. He’d crashed straight to the bed, closed his eyes.

He was wrong.

1:35 AM.

Twenty-four hours: it’s been a whole day since their fight. Twenty-four hours filled with the constant regret and dread squeezing at his chest, twenty-four hours of his gaze being fixed on doors and entryways, hoping against hope that it might be Kyungsoo going through them.

He decides to cook dinner, movements mechanical as he chops up the vegetables and takes out the ramyeon. Everything is too quiet. Silence demands to be filled.

_—one: kyungsoo snapping at him, fixed glares and tired hands—two: chanyeol walking on eggshells, prepping dinner and a movie—three: hey, let me take care of you—_

_—four five six seven eight—clenched jaws and sharp eyes, five meters: the distance they keep as they trade verbal blows—_

_it’s exhausting trying to keep doing things like this_

_then don’t do them!_

_pretend you didn’t see or hear anything_

_it’s not hard_

_you think i don’t get tired, soo?_

_you say you’re fine and then I find out you have an anxiety attack on set_

_i don’t get to control when i’m fine_

_and when im not_

_but you control when you lie_

_and I deserve the truth to these things!_

_if you’re tired with me just say so_

_no one’s forcing you to do anything_

_don’t you trust me?_

_—nine ten eleven twelve: hurt, making a home of his chest—the seconds dragging by, grip tight on the dishrag, the ache to go to kyungsoo all-encompassing, tears, pricking at the back of his eyes—_

_—kyungsoo, throat bobbing, hair messy from his hands running through it—trust is earned—_

_—chanyeol, breath sharp in his lungs—haven’t I earned it? haven’t I loved you enough to deserve it? you’re so selfish—_

_—the door clicking closed, kyungsoo’s parting words a permanent stain in the air, shrapnel digging into chanyeol’s heart—the problem was never you—_

Chanyeol’s tears fall on the counter. A sob tears its way up his throat. Little hiccups bringing him down onto the cold floor, hugging his knees to his chest.

He thinks he hears a door opening. He thinks he hears footsteps, thinks he smells Kyungsoo’s aftershave.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, more for himself than anyone else, “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to—I was just tired and—god, please don’t hate me—“

A hand brings his chin up. A thumb swipes at his cheekbone. Kyungsoo is in knelt in front of him, gray hoodie rumpled, eyes shining.

Chanyeol somehow knows that he hasn't slept too. They were the same like that.

“I could never hate you,” he says, pressing a kiss to Chanyeol's head. He takes Chanyeol’s hand. “I promised to love you, didn’t I? Best as I could. I hurt you instead. I’m the one that has to say sorry.”

That triggers a whole new wave of crying, but this time, he does it in Kyungsoo’s arms, shoulders heaving under his hold. He doesn’t know how much time passes. Just that when he runs out of tears to shed, Kyungsoo’s still there. Still hasn’t let go.

They look at each other, questions charging the space between their eyes. But sparks of hurt electrify Chanyeol the more he thinks about them, and so he stands up, leaving Kyungsoo to stumble behind him as he makes the scrambled eggs.

There is no anger, only fear: fear at what the answers to his questions might be and where they might lead.

Arms settle, hesitant over his sides, staying there, fluttering in doubt until Chanyeol raises his own, and then they wrap around his middle. Kyungsoo's weight hovers across his back, pressure light like he's expecting Chanyeol to shove him away. 

“I don’t want to lose you.” Kyungsoo’s voice is desperate, stretched thin. Like it’s one second from breaking. “I just—it’s hard for me to show things like that—but I can fix it. I’ll fix it, I promise.”

“Don’t,” Chanyeol tries. His throat hurts. “Don’t—I know it’s not easy for you. Showing vulnerability. I should’ve remembered last night, there’s nothing to fix.”

“I trust you the most," Kyungsoo says, his breath hitching into a sob. "Please believe me."

Chanyeol turns around, pulls him in.

“But?”

“But it’s heavy,” Kyungsoo blurts. “Trust is heavy because it comes with expectations.”

“Kyungsoo,” Chanyeol whispers. He actually _hears it,_ the pain in his syllables, the difficulty of pulling your fears up from a place so well hidden from everyone else. “Take it easy.” 

“How could I make you carry something like that? How could I make you more tired with me than you already are—“

“Oh god.” Chanyeol’s squeezing him now, forcing Kyungsoo to stop. “Shit, Soo. I love you. I love you so much, fuck, I—hey, I love you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very,” Chanyeol mutters against his hair. “Listen to me. Expectations have always been part of the deal. Trust is heavy because it’s made of promises you have to keep.”

“And when you get tired of keeping them?” Kyungsoo sounds so _small,_ so delicate; glass heart bleeding over the kitchen floors, “what then?”

And _fuck,_ Chanyeol promises it to himself, promises to any god that's listening _—_ _I'll protect him, whatever it takes—_ his soulmate has always been so big, so bright; quietly shining in the way only stars can, and to see him like this _—_

“Look at me.”

Chanyeol does the same thing Kyungsoo had done: a hand under his chin, a thumb wiping at his tears. 

“Being tired is one thing. Giving up is another. I can rest, Kyungsoo. What I can’t do is keep crawling in the dark.”

“I know.”

“I’m staying. I’m staying, Kyungsoo. I won’t leave. I love you.”

“Me too.”

“What,” Chanyeol offers a small smile, _come back to me,_ “are you scared to say it?”

Kyungsoo’s laugh is wet. “I’m staying too. I love you.”

“You’re gonna have to tell me what’s bothering you from now on. Tell me what I can do to help. It doesn’t have to be everything all at once. Just—more.”

“Okay,” Kyungsoo nods, “okay. Tell me when you get tired of me.”

“I’ll tell you when I need rest. You have to trust that I’ll come back though—trust me to take care of myself first before I take care of you. So I can stay beside you even longer.”

“Alright,” Kyungsoo says simply. “Okay. I love you.”

“C’mere.”

They kiss slowly, gently, the tenderness a reminder of their promise: _I am here for you._ Kyungsoo’s hands cup at Chanyeol’s jaw, tears mingling between their lips, and time passes filled with Kyungsoo, feather-light touches on his soul—

They break apart when Chanyeol’s stomach growls, and suddenly they’re laughing at the sheer normalcy of it all, and Chanyeol falls in love with him again, says it in the middle of kitchen tiles and rusting pots and unused steamers, _I love you,_ repeats it until Kyungsoo shushes his mouth with a hand.

Somehow, Kyungsoo ends up teaching him how to make “perfect” scrambled eggs, guiding Chanyeol’s wrists from behind him, huffing out exasperated breaths when Chanyeol becomes clumsy on purpose.

At some point, Kyungsoo whirls Chanyeol around for a hug; locking his hands when Chanyeol tries to break free.

"Hi," Kyungsoo says, and he's shining again. 

"Hello," Chanyeol replies, cringing but too happy to stop what he's going to say next, "what's a pretty little thing like you doing up at this time of night?"

"The pretty little thing has a name," Kyungsoo answers _,_ "they call me Kyungsoo. But you can call me yours." 

“ _Ew_ ," Chanyeol rears back, stifling a laugh, "what the fuck, that's not funny Soo, let me go, I think I threw up a little in my mouth—“

“No," Kyungsoo wheezes, "you started it _—_ " 

"No one told you to keep it going!"

"You're worse than me!" 

“Kyungsoo, I swear—“

Kyungsoo cuts him off with a peck on the lips, heart-smile searing itself behind Chanyeol's eyes. He's beautiful. “I thought you loved me.”

Chanyeol does what any sick fool in love would do: he decides to lose, just like all the other times he let Kyungsoo have his little moments, and makes the best out of the situation.

"Fine," he rolls his eyes, "I'm worse than you." 

He places his hands on the garters of Kyungsoo’s sweatpants, lays his head on Kyungsoo’s shoulder. 

The clock on the counter says 3:34 AM. The lights of the kitchen are on low, the smell of ramyeon permeating the air.

“Doing this is corny right? Which is my brand, which is something you accept and love. Dance with me."

_—overseas amusement park dates and skipping fancy dinners for takeout and silly food fights in the kitchen—these little moments scattered across time, glowing with a color that belonged only to them—_

_—chanyeol thinks about how right he was to trust in the small things, back at that empty train station—_

Kyungsoo guides Chanyeol’s hands to the small of his back. He settles his own over Chanyeol’s shoulders. “Go on then, Yeollie. Sing for us.”

_wise men say_

_only fools rush in_

_but I can’t help_

_falling in love with you_

They laugh again when Chanyeol’s voice cracks—“don't you sing for a living?”—“an hour of crying doesn’t count as prep, Kyungsoo!”—melting into one another, and they feel like two halves of a whole;

_take my hand_

For a split-second, Chanyeol believes in fate—believes in the tapestry of the cosmos and all the other bullshit, because the sense of belonging that sweeps over him when Kyungsoo’s laugh rumbles along his chest makes him feel complete; makes him imagine a future.

_take my whole life too_

The ramyeon has long gone cold. Their shadows dance, twirling and bumping into each other, hidden from the stars trying to peek inside.

“I love you,” Chanyeol mutters, when the only thing he can see when he closes his eyes is Kyungsoo, “I love you.”

_for i can’t help_

_falling in love with you_

_—fifty meters: the distance between chanyeol’s car and the barracks—don’t miss me too much, okay yeol?—just don’t get hurt—teasing kyungsoo for his bald head, a final kiss in the car—you won’t even notice I’m gone, don’t cry—_

_—the train card, falling to the floor—bus 4419 stopping outside of the studio, convincing his manager of this out of the way store that sold cheap party decorations—going to blue lemonade just to eat a samanco—texting jongin to go to their takoyaki place—playing the same song they’d danced to while cooking kyungsoo’s favorite food—_

_—little visits to the places where a piece of them might tide the loneliness over—_

_—and chanyeol thinks about just how many souls this city has seen broken in its streets, rescued inside its apartments, lost in its bridges;_

_—he thinks about the parts people leave behind and the parts that glow under the sunsets, the parts that live and breathe with the early morning light peeking behind its skyscrapers—this city, filled with chanyeol and kyungsoo and so many others;_

The stairs going down to the subway are barricaded. The streets of Apgujeong Rodeo are empty. The lamps provide enough light to walk around in, but the three of them turn on their flashlights anyway.

“It’s so cold!” Baekhyun shouts, voice echoing into the night. His scarf flutters in the harsh December winds, breath fogging up in front of him.

“Hyung,” Jongin points to his water bottle, “you think you can form ice?”

“Be serious, Jongin,” Baekhyun scoffs, “of course it’ll form ice.”

Chanyeol leaves them to their speculations, used to their dynamic of Dumb and Dumber already, dragging his gaze to any shop that might be open.

They migrate to a few food stands along the road, lights staving off the shadows of winter. Jongin quickly makes it a point to buy steamed buns for the three of them, and Baekhyun finds a warm spot to wait in.

“Chanyeol,” Baekhyun starts, “you used to love going to this place, right? You were friends with half the aunties along the left side of the road.”

“What?” Chanyeol says distractedly, “yeah. Sure.”

“Me and Kyungsoo hyung loved to come here too.” Jongin stands, pulling Chanyeol to do the same. “Our moms knew each other and we went home together for a while, but he didn’t want me to keep waiting for him when the training got more intense, and so we’d go here before we parted ways.”

He leads Chanyeol to the front of a tteokbeokki stand.

“One day he came to me in the practice rooms and told me about this guy—he’d slipped on a rice cake. Kyungsoo had been slapped that day by the director, and the whole thing was so funny it had him stop thinking about quitting being a trainee. It was only for a moment, but it meant so much. He kept noticing the guy everywhere ever since, silently thanking him when he passed him by in the hallways.”

“Sounds nice,” Chanyeol mutters, looking into space.

“Was it this stand, Jongin?”

“Yes,” comes the reply, “it was.”

“And was it here that Kyungsoo first saw Chanyeol?”

“Yes, it was.”

“And didn’t Kyungsoo request we do this because he wants Chanyeol to know how much he treasures their moments like he does, but in, like, a much quieter way?” 

“Mmmh.” 

“And is Chanyeol too distracted to listen to what we’re saying?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Poor Kyungsoo. All that planning gone to waste.”

When Chanyeol’s phone rings in his pocket, he almost drops it with how fast he tries to answer. It’s Kyungsoo, trying to video-chat.

“Where are you?”

“Guess,” Kyungsoo is smiling like a child. His turtleneck is stark against his white padded coat, glasses snug over his noise. He’s in the food stands, that’s for sure—those are the same string lights, the same generic roof.

Chanyeol scans the streets again, but with no luck.

“I can’t—just tell me where you are, Soo—“

It’s then that Baekhyun reaches up, tapping his shoulder and pointing to the right. There—on the left corner; a figure: white jacket over black jeans.

Chanyeol doesn’t know what to call it, the way he always ends up gravitating to Kyungsoo. He tackles Kyungsoo into a hug, heart leaping out of his throat, Kyungsoo’s hair tickling his face, his _laugh_ traveling by air and not by earphone wires, sounding like every missing chord Chanyeol’s tried to fill in for the past eighteen months—

“Home,” Kyungsoo whispers against his shoulder. He holds Chanyeol tight, and Chanyeol knows that this is where they belong, together, each other’s safe place, whole once more. “I’m home.”

_***_

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thank you very much for reading! 
> 
> This fic was originally supposed to be a drabble: chanyeol was supposed to count the distance from his studio to kyungsoo’s apartment bc he’d finally come back from military service (would've been the last scene)!! I started writing it two days after kyungsoo’s vlive bc of all the prompts of my tl, but the round gave me an additional two weeks to expand on things. 
> 
> english is my third language, so I apologize for any mistakes :3 point them out in the comments and i'll gladly remedy them! 
> 
> If you liked it, please consider leaving kudos and comments <3


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